


Christmas Past

by wendymr



Series: Christmas Past and Present [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Christmases upon Christmases ago, he gave his heart to Val.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lolabobs, who prompted me as part of the Advent Challenge on my LJ.

_“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart–”_

“Oh, piss off!” Robbie’s fist thumps down on the off-switch. The radio goes silent.

Last Christmas – no, not last Christmas, but Christmases upon Christmases ago – he gave his heart to Val. Year after year, richer or poorer, rows and bad tempers and barnies with the kids regardless, he’d loved her. They’d loved each other. And even though there were many years when he had to work all or even part of the day, they’d always managed to steal at least a few special minutes together on Christmas Day: to kiss, with or without mistletoe, and to wish each other a happy Christmas.

But that all ended less than a week before Christmas ten years ago. The nineteenth of December 2002 – almost ten years ago to the day. 

Ever since that day, Christmas has meant the anniversary of Val’s death. Oh, he goes through the motions for Lyn’s sake; he always drives up to Manchester to spend a couple of days with her some time between Christmas Eve and New Year, depending on his days off. Not often Christmas Day; he usually volunteers to work, with the excuse that it’s fairer to give some bloke (or woman) with a family the day off instead. But really it’s because he still can’t bear to face Christmas Day, with all the associations and memories it has.

Last Christmas... oh, last Christmas he worked on Christmas Day, and then had three days off. Hathaway – James – had Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and Robbie’d insisted against James’s protests that he take them and get out of Oxford. “Go and see your family, man. Or if that’s not what you want, spend the time with friends.” It hadn’t been all that long since the arsenic poisoning incident, after all, and maybe six months since the lad’s crisis of confidence in his career and the tempting offer to go back into academic life. “Go,” he’d said. “I don’t want to hear from you – or see you down the pub – until after Christmas, you hear?”

James had obeyed, leaving their shared office at the end of the day with a stiff “Happy Christmas, sir,” his tone as much as his posture screaming wounded offence. But it’d been for the lad’s own good. He needed time away from the job, and away from the governor who was taking up far too much of his time – and, probably, needing too much looking after in ways that were none of a bagman’s responsibility.

This year, they’re both down to work the early shift on Christmas Day, but they’ve got Boxing Day and the day after off. James has been vague about his plans, with just a non-committal _mm-hmm_ when Robbie asked if he was visiting family or friends this year. Robbie can’t help worrying about the lad, even more so this year than last. James has been drinking too much, not to mention the melancholy he – bloody typical of the too-clever sod – called _existential flu_. 

Nothing he can do, though. He’s not the lad’s keeper, after all.

And he’s got his own demons to face this year. The tenth anniversary, for one, and the fact that Lyn keeps nagging him to drive up to Manchester as soon as his shift’s over on Christmas Day. Won’t hear of him waiting until the day after; she wants her dad to spend Christmas with her new family, with his grandson. 

He supposes he’s just going to have to give in. Bloody Christmas.

_________________________

On the afternoon of the nineteenth, he’s just coming back from a meeting about possible budget cuts – yet again, and a bloody waste of time that was – when he notices James standing by his desk. “I’ll give him the message as soon as I see him, Lyn. And I do hope you all get better soon.”

“James, give me–” he begins, but his bagman’s already ended the call.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you were back.” He holds out the mobile to Robbie.

Robbie grunts. “Innocent an’ her no mobiles in management meetings rule. What’s up with Lyn?” 

“Chicken pox.” James’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Apparently Tim just started to show spots last night, and now today Lyn’s got them too. She says you’d better not come for Christmas as they’ll still be infectious.”

“I’ve had chicken pox,” he says, already searching for and finding Lyn’s number in his contacts.

“Which means you could contract shingles, sir, which can be even more dangerous.”

James is right, of course. Bugger. And bloody irony, too: he thought he hadn’t wanted to go to Lyn’s for Christmas, but now that he can’t...

“This bloody day’s cursed,” he mutters, and immediately hits the ring button so James can’t comment.

James isn’t stupid, though. He also has a very good memory, and has learned the art of discretion over the years. Now that Robbie thinks about it, cups of coffee have silently materialised at least twice today so far, and anything that might cause any irritation whatsoever has been quietly and efficiently removed from his path. Well, other than unavoidable annoyances like Innocent’s budget meeting.

He’s a bloody good sergeant, is James. And, yes, a bloody good mate, too.

_________________________

Lyn’s clearly disappointed, and also worried about him, and so he assures her that he’ll be fine, that he’s got plenty of friends in Oxford if he wants company, and that the most important thing is for her and Tim to get well and hope the little one doesn’t catch it as well. He has a panicked moment when it occurs to him that he should offer to take little Michael until Lyn and Tim aren’t infectious any more. Quite apart from the fact that he’s never been a full-time caregiver – all that was Val’s job – what the hell would he do with a fourteen-month-old? And he’d have to take time off work, which wouldn’t go down at all well with Innocent at the moment.

But before he can offer, Lyn tells him that Tim’s parents are on their way over to take Michael home with them. It’s for the best, she says, though he can hear the unhappiness in her voice at the thought of spending Christmas without her son. 

“You know he’s better off with them,” Robbie reassures her. “And you’ll have him back by New Year. You can have a proper Christmas then, can’t you? And tell you what,” he adds, “I’ll see if I can’t get a day off an’ drive up to join you, all right?”

“You do that,” she tells him, trying to smile.

“I will, pet. Look after yourselves, now.”

He gets back to work, ignoring James’s attempt to catch his eye with a look of sympathy. Like he told Lyn, it’s not a big deal.

No new murders materialise to give him something to get his teeth into, and so Robbie spends the rest of the day slogging through reports and a first stab at James’s year-end performance review. He hates those forms and their idiotic questions, and he’s more than half-tempted just to give James the damn thing and tell him to fill it in and write his own review.

Knocking-off time finally comes, and James shuts down his computer immediately Robbie announces that they’ve done enough for the day – for once, the lad’s actually going to go home on time. Wonders will never cease.

“Pint, sir?” James says as they leave their office.

He pulls a face. “Won’t be the best of company...”

James shrugs. “Nor am I a lot of the time. Doesn’t stop you keeping me company anyway.”

“Ah, you’re all right,” he says, and actually means far more than that.

In the pub, James gets them in and then, as they’re sitting, he raises his glass. “To the memory of Mrs Valerie Lewis,” he says in what Robbie privately calls his priest’s voice. _“Plant thou no roses at my head,_  
 _Nor shady cypress tree:_  
 _Be the green grass above me_  
 _With showers and dewdrops wet;_  
 _And if thou wilt, remember,  
_ _And if thou wilt, forget.”_

It takes Robbie a moment or two to react and echo James’s toast. While the lad’s less wary of mentioning his wife these days, he only ever does it in contexts where it’s arguably necessary, and he’s never mentioned her by name to Robbie. Robbie’s not only taken aback; he’s touched.

“So what’s that from, then?”

“Christina Rosetti. The poem’s called Song.” James takes a drink, and abruptly his tone switches from priest-like to the faintly mocking humour Robbie’s more familiar with. “So, you’ll have to stay in Oxford for Christmas, sir. Whatever will you do with yourself?” 

“I’m not helpless, you know, Sergeant.”

“Of course not.” James leans back. “So if I hear fire engines have been called to your end of town, I shouldn’t worry?”

“Sod off.” Robbie downs about a third of his pint. “What’re you doing, anyway? Going to family again, like last year?”

A strange expression crosses James’s face and he doesn’t answer. Robbie’s instincts are immediately on full alert. “What?”

“Nothing.” James’s expression turns bland. “So what did you think–”

“James.” The lad falls silent. “You didn’t go anywhere last year, did you?” James’s silence is all the answer he needs. “Why?”

It takes almost a full minute of watching and waiting, in full interrogator mode, before James says anything. “No family, sir. And... I think you know I’m not particularly socially inclined.”

Robbie exhales loudly, annoyed with himself as much as with James. “Why didn’t you bloody say anything, soft lad?”

James’s posture’s instantly stiff, and his tone is scornful. “Even if I thought it was anything you needed to know, sir, what would you have done? Taken me up to Manchester with you like a lost soul? Not that we even had the same days off–”

He hadn’t considered that, but– “Why not? ‘Bout time you met Lyn. You can come with me for New Year. I’ll tell Innocent we both want the time off. We’ve got it banked after all that overtime we put in last month.”

James has gone very still. “It’s kind of you to suggest it, sir, but why on earth would your daughter and her family want to have me around? Especially on a family occasion like this, and when they’re only getting over being sick.”

Robbie waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t talk nonsense. Lyn already feels like she knows you, she’s talked to you that many times. Told me ages ago I should bring you up some time. So that’s settled. No argument.”

For a moment or two, it looks as if he’s going to protest, but then James relaxes and a very faint smile tilts the corners of his mouth. “Thank you. That would be... nice. But I don’t want to put Lyn to any trouble, so I’ll find a hotel–”

“You bloody won’t. She’s got a sofa-bed. You’ll sleep on that – though you’d better be prepared to be woken early. Michael’s a noisy bugger first thing in the morning.”

James’s lips twitch. “Clearly more of a morning person than his granddad.” He leans forward then. “Since you’re going to be on your own for Christmas, sir, come over to mine after our shift’s over. I do actually know how to cook a turkey, believe it or not.”

“Is there no end to your talents?” Robbie shakes his head with a fond grin. “All right. But only if you come to mine for Boxing Day. Bring the leftovers. One thing Val did teach me was to make a decent turkey hash.”

“Sounds most appetising, sir.” James’s tone is droll, but then he smiles again. “Okay, then.”

Robbie finds himself returning James’s smile as he stands and collects their pint glasses. Okay, there’s no going back to the Christmases of the past with Val, but maybe this year he’ll have some new memories of Christmas spent with a good friend. “Same again?”


End file.
